


Lovesick

by royal_chandler



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-17 01:08:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15449991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/royal_chandler/pseuds/royal_chandler
Summary: The depth of the flu aisle in the pharmacy is substantial, overwhelmingly so, and Steve is half-convinced he needs to return to the front and trade his basket for a full-on cart.





	Lovesick

**Author's Note:**

  * For [junker5](https://archiveofourown.org/users/junker5/gifts).



> For junker5, who wanted for me to revisit Stony sickfic if the muse ever found me. The muse found me sooner than expected ♥
> 
> Loads of love to [FestiveFerret](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FestiveFerret/pseuds/FestiveFerret) for the speedy beta read!

“Morning, Cap,” Tony greets, and Steve’s head pops up out of his paperback at the severe vocal fry. 

Even from watching Tony’s back, Steve can spot how his typically sharp and busy motions are sluggish. Steve has seen Tony make coffee plenty, more times than is sane most days—the coffee-making, not Steve watching—and not once has Tony ever almost dropped a mug when getting it out of the cupboard or needed to take several pokes at the coffee maker to get it brewing. 

“Tony, are you—?”

Steve is cut off by a particularly nasty hacking fit that’s pitched in Tony’s suit-jacketed elbow, the sound transportive, worryingly familiar, and squeezing a painful fist in Steve’s chest.

“You’re sick,” Steve says, rising up from the kitchen table and making a beeline for Tony. 

Alarmingly, the only color in Tony’s face is the rough-red of his already chafing nose. Under hair that’s succumbing to sweat and has limped to its natural curl, his eyes are bleary and struggling to stay at more than half-mast. 

“No,” Tony replies, gesturing with a hand that barely leaves his side. “I’m fine. It’s just a cold.”

Resting his knuckles on Tony’s forehead, Steve frowns. “I think it’s the flu. You’re roasting hot, Tony.”

“Hmm, _roasting_ might be a first,” Tony replies. His attempt at a leer, that comes out nearly cross-eyed, gets Steve to remember himself and jerk his hand away. “Thanks, Dr. Rogers, but I just need some morning joe and I’m good to go.”

Sighing and ignoring Tony’s scandalized yelp, Steve turns off the gurgling coffee maker. He switches on the kettle and searches for tea. He prefers strong and black but someone usually keeps a tin of green tea or spearmint. Lemongrass would be preferable, but that’s a longshot.

“I’m not drinking flower water, Steve,” Tony complains, punctuating the sentence with a cough. He rubs at his chest. “Shit that hurt. I’ve got that meeting with the mayor, remember? That’s boring enough on its own. Me going without caffeine is an extraordinarily bad idea.”

“You don’t have to worry about that, since you’re not going,” Steve says mildly. He plucks out a spearmint tea bag and drops it into the mug. It’ll do for now. He can pick up lemongrass and actual lemons later at the market. Shrugging, he says, “It can wait, and if it can’t, someone else will go. You really shouldn’t even be out of bed.”

Tony eyes him. “You’re not the boss of me.”

“My job is to lead and look out for the best interests of our team. Sending you out in your condition, would be in direct violation of that objective. More importantly, you’re my friend and I want you to get better,” Steve says. He gives Tony a once-over. “Also, I’m trying to spare you the embarrassment of walking out the door because you missed three buttons and only two of those are on your shirt.”

“Big deal. It’s not like that’s never happened before.”

“And the mismatched socks?”

“You’re lying.”

“Sure about that? You gonna look down and check? Feeling lucky, Stark?” 

“Okay, let’s be real, I’m not that set on breakfast with the mayor,” Tony concedes after a moment. He sniffles and wipes at his nose with the cuff of his jacket. Mentally, Steve adds another box of tissues to his shopping list because that thing is running like a broken faucet. “I do have an appointment with R&D, however, and I’ve used the sick excuse. Twice. I’m literally the only one who can handle that.”

“Skip it again.”

“Whoa. Invasion of the body snatchers. Are you serious?”

Steve hums in consideration. “FRIDAY, record the following: To whomever it may concern, I regret to inform you that Mr. Stark cannot make it to your scheduled appointment due to an unexpected emergency. He apologizes for any inconvenience and will reach out as soon as possible to reschedule. Best regards, Captain America.”

“Boss?” FRIDAY seeks verification. 

“It’s all good, FRIDAY. Send it. And save it. Might come in handy in the future. That was dirty and brilliant,” Tony says to Steve, sounding impressed, and Steve doesn’t preen. He _doesn’t_. So softly that Steve thinks maybe he isn’t meant to hear it, Tony adds, “I could have used you in junior high.”

The kettle interrupts them with a shrill whistle, and Steve fixes the tea with the boiled water and a generous spoon of honey. He hands it over once it’s steeped and stirred to his satisfaction. “Back to bed with you,” he says.

Tony’s brow hitches up high in amusement as he breathes in the steam curling from the mug. He asks, “What’re you going to do? Frog-march me out?”

Truthfully, Steve tells him, “I’m not above it.”

Tony engages him in a lengthy stare but aside from that, there isn’t much protest. Because of this, Steve chooses to take pity on Tony and not comment when he does ponder his feet and yank up the hem of his pant leg on his shuffle out, muttering a handful of expletives. 

*

The world has come a long way from cold and grippe tablets and selling cigarettes to remedy an ailment of the lung. It’s wonderful. However, the depth of the flu aisle in the pharmacy is substantial, overwhelmingly so, and Steve is half-convinced he needs to return to the front and trade his basket for a full-on cart. Box after bottle after box claims to be the best, so that much hasn’t changed, but Steve hasn’t actually been sick since 1943 and missed nearly seventy years of modern medicine, so he doesn’t know which to trust. Tony’s cough earlier had sounded wet but what if turns into a dry one? What effect would the cough syrup have then? What if it’s more harm than help? 

Steve isn’t too proud to utilize the assistance of the staff, but he does feel a little ridiculous when he walks up to the counter and the startled gaze of the pharmacist, and proceeds to shake about two dozen different brands out of his basket. It causes a gatorade to roll right off the edge of the counter and land square on his foot.

His trip to the market is far less complicated because, thankfully, chicken soup is still chicken soup.

*

Tony is more mound than man when Steve returns.

“Hey,” Steve whispers. He pads into Tony’s room quietly, not wanting to wake him if he’s asleep, but the mound answers back with a comforter-muffled groan.

Taking a seat on Tony’s bed feels like some serious overstepping and borderline precarious. However, it’s a wonder that Tony can even breathe with his face covered on top of the congestion, and preventing Tony’s suffocation is a good enough reason to get within an arm’s reach, no matter how intimate. Steve tugs down the comforter to reveal more than the bird's nest atop Tony’s head, and even with how sick he is, Tony’s still the sort of handsome that makes Steve’s thoughts give up. He swallows before speaking. “You sound miserable.”

“I feel miserable.” That’s the God’s honest truth and then some if Tony’s willingly admitting to it. “Can’t fall asleep for the life of me,” he grumbles.

“I’m sorry,” Steve tells him. He’d switch places with Tony in a heartbeat if he could. “Um, I got you some medicine that should make you feel better and take care of that, though.” Steve pulls out the package of caplets the pharmacist had recommended, a thermometer, and a bag of herbal throat drops. He shoves aside the scrunched-up wads of what he thinks is toilet paper on the nightstand with a new tissue box.

“God, Steve. Did you buy half of Walgreens?”

“The fact that you think this is half of Walgreens proves that you’ve never actually stepped foot inside a Walgreens.”

“Is Walgreens even a word anymore?” Tony asks, sitting up and letting the comforter slip into folds around his waist. He’s changed into a sweater that’s so creased it must have been dug out of a place he hasn’t visited in a while. Steve’s never seen it. For some reason, he’s never considered Tony owning sweaters, and maybe considering it would have been the truly absurd thing, but it’s an achingly nice look on him, soft. Suddenly, but not uncommonly, Steve desperately wishes that he had the right to curl Tony up and curve against him. He wants badly to press a kiss to the crown of Tony’s head in comfort and drag it down slowly to check the temperature of his heated skin.

He settles for a thermometer that’s no longer made of mercury and glass.

“You’ve got a low-grade fever, but 99.7 is on the better end so that’s not too bad,” Steve says. He removes the foil backing of the medicine and gives Tony a couple capsules. Brandishing a bottle of water and a sleeve of saltines he’d grabbed on his way to Tony’s room, he says, “Take these and maybe see if you can keep down some crackers. Have you been feeling nauseated at all? There’s gatorade and ginger ale in the kitchen.”

Tony blinks at him in confusion, seemingly having no clue what to do with what’s been dropped in his hands. “You don’t have to do this.”

It’s akin to keeping a house of cards steady, guarding his secrets with his pulse quickening wildly and ready to leap out of his skin, but Steve tries. “Tony, it’s fine. I want you to get better, and I’m able to do these things for you. I’m happy to do it. You said it yourself that you’re miserable. I remember being sick; it's impossible to forget. I remember how much better I felt having someone who—having someone there for me.”

“Oh. Can’t really counter that. Thanks, Cap. I appreciate it,” Tony says, and then he chugs down the water and the medicine. His tired grin knocks Steve’s heart—and the house of cards—sideways.

“You’re welcome,” Steve manages, hauling himself up. He clears his throat and avoids looking Tony in the eye. “You should get some rest. I’ll check up on you later, okay?”

*

The team parades in and out of the communal kitchen while Steve works over the stove. Vision stops by with a quizzical tilt of his head, Nat comes through with a knowing smirk and bites into an apple with a crunch that needs no words, and when Rhodey pops in, he watches Steve for a solid twelve minutes before leaving with a firm nod. Wanda shyly suggests adding cayenne pepper. _Healing benefits,_ she says, and her brows rise in small shock when Steve follows through.

“What happened to not letting Tony know you want to be his boyfriend?” Sam asks bluntly when it’s his turn to spy. He lifts the lid of the dutch oven and takes a peek. “Sweet mother. This smells amazing. Is that rosemary?”

“Thyme, and making soup for someone doesn’t say ‘I want to be your boyfriend,’” Steve says, slicing more carrots and celery. He pauses, thinks about it objectively, and drops the knife in horror. He turns to Sam. “What am I doing?”

Sam laughs and claps him on the shoulder. “Hate to break it to you, Steve, but they sell this in cans, even in tubs. Like millions of them. And this”--he gestures to the stove, the cutting board, and the stretch of countertop that’s dusted with flour--“is obviously a delicious, painstaking, homemade declaration of love. It’s the culinary variation of holding up a boombox outside his window. It’s bold, man.”

Steve groans and rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes. He properly _loses_ it. “How hopeless, am I? I just—I don’t know. He sounded so awful this morning and he’s sick and he’s _terrible,_ Sam, frighteningly terrible at looking after himself. And it’s like an instinct, you know? To take care of him. All I want to do is cuddle up with him, and make sure he doesn’t suffocate himself in his bedsheets because that’s a real possibility. And I want to ply him with chicken noodle soup and get him healthy but I shouldn’t because he’s not mine—” 

“He’s not anyone’s at the moment.”

“—and I really, really want him to be. He’s, wow, he’s something else and sometimes I just go on the fritz just talking to him because I either can’t say anything at all or want to say everything.”

“Um, Steve.” 

“But I don’t know what the appropriate wait time is before asking him out, you know?” 

“Steve, man...” Sam is saying.

“And even if he is looking, he could have anyone,” Steve rolls on. “He could have anyone on the planet, and I’m just this kid from Brooklyn making his ma’s soup like a lovesick idiot. Why in the hell would he look at me?”

“ _Steve._ How could I not look at you?”

Steve wheels around at the wheeze, and there’s Tony, staring and stupefied with his bedding a train behind him. 

In what can only be explained as a complete descent into denial with the expulsion of all rational thought quick on its heels, Steve bolts.

*

“You ran away,” Tony states at the threshold of Steve’s room, balancing his two bowls of soup on a tray. “Literally, you don’t run away from anything, and you just booked it. Seriously, a cartoon cloud of smoke was left in your wake. There’d be a Steve-shaped hole in the door if the kitchen actually had a door. You need to unburden me of this hazard. I’m swooning, and that’s like the second time in twenty minutes, fyi.” 

Steve rockets out of his armchair. “Sheesh, Tony, you shouldn’t. Give it here. Sit down.”

Like he belongs there, Tony makes himself comfortable on Steve’s mattress. “Well, there was no telling when you’d be back from sulking.”

Steve sets the tray down and carefully passes a bowl to him before sitting down with his own. He stirs it absently. “I’m not sulking. I would have come back out.” 

“Still, I’d hate for your efforts to go to waste.”

“I can guarantee that wouldn’t have happened. Look at who we live with.”

“Yeah, but you made this for me and I’d like to eat it with you,” Tony says, a lovely smile spilling over his face, and yeah, that’s pretty contagious. “I mean, it’s your mom’s recipe.”

Seeing bits of carrots and celery floating in the broth, and getting a kick out of that, Steve asks curiously. “Did you finish this?”

“Hell no.” Tony croaks a laugh. “That’d be a desecration, and we both know that. Sam refused to let me near the pot anyway. He said he’d spray me down with the bulk of disinfectant you bought. He finished it. I’m a fan of the dumplings.”

“My ma always thought it’d help put meat on my bones,” Steve recalls. He shrugs. “Not so much, but it was always hot and filling. It was good. Mostly, because of how much effort she’d put into it. She could be coming off a graveyard shift at the hospital and it wouldn’t make a difference to her. She somehow always found time for me, and I was always sick more than I wasn’t. She’d make it for me, and I’d do the same for her because she didn’t think of herself nearly enough. You remind me of her in that way.” 

“Oh yeah?” Tony asks quietly, his gaze flitting over Steve in wonder. 

“She’d work so hard taking care of everyone else, same as you. At her job and at home. She was non-stop. I always wanted to pay it back in kind, and I wish I could have done more. I don’t know.” He continues with what’s he’s never told anyone. “I guess I hoped that cooking her soup would make her feel as special as she made me feel, show that I loved her just as much. That I cared.”

“I’m sure she got that, Steve.”

“There’s no way to know that.”

“Trust me,” Tony stresses meaningfully. His fingers find Steve’s, anchoring and filing into their spaces. “She got it.”

Feeling warmth from every which way, Steve tucks into his soup.

“So me sick and full of snot does it for you?” Tony asks once half of his bowl is gone and Steve’s own is scraped clean. He leans back on his hands, and apparently it only took two doses of cough medicine to get that leer back in working order. 

Steve wrinkles his nose at that exact articulation but insists, “You and anything does it for me, if I’m honest.”

“Hot damn. I like you honest,” Tony says, grinning. He catches Steve’s elbow and with a move that has him huffing, he wrenches Steve down until they’re bent toward each other, side by side. His fingers walk up Steve’s front and hook into the collar of his shirt. And, as if he’s done it a bunch, Steve’s hands bracket Tony’s hipbones, brush against the warm skin from where his sweater has rucked-up. Tony shivers, and Steve draws him in closer. 

Whispering, Tony adds, “We’re kind of in the same boat, then, because I like you a lotta ways. This isn’t bad timing, so that we’re clear. You could never be bad timing. Today’s forecast, however, is a high chance of me hacking right in your face during necking. So beware.”

“Necking?” With a hard wince, Steve says, “That’s fast, don’t you think?” 

The incredulous expression on Tony’s face is priceless and better than he expected. Steve presses a kiss to the dry bow of his open mouth, starts an ephemeral scatter across Tony’s jaw and up the length of his nose, the space between his brows. His lips steal that coveted kiss against Tony’s forehead and linger there. 

“Are you checking my temperature? You know that’s not actual science, right?” Tony murmurs several beats in, sounding sleepy again.

“Mmhmm.” Steve slings his arm fully over Tony’s back and buries his nose in Tony’s hair, closing his eyes. “Still real though.”

**fin**


End file.
